


The Adventure Of The Unfortunate Kiss (1902)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [206]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Betrayal, Boxing & Fisticuffs, Cock Rings, Destiel - Freeform, Diplomacy, Duelling, F/M, Gay Sex, Jealous Sherlock, Johnlock - Freeform, Kissing, Love, M/M, Possessive Sherlock, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 16:50:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11810154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Doctor John Watson gets kissed by an attractive girl - and a certain consulting detective is Definitely Not Pleased!





	The Adventure Of The Unfortunate Kiss (1902)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nirelian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nirelian/gifts).



> Mentioned elsewhere as 'the case for which Sherlock refused a knighthood'.

Foreword: Shortly before the Garrideb Case, Sherlock had spared the blushes of an important government figure by solving a case for them. Unfortunately circumstances mean that I cannot include in “Elementary CLX”, but that and the following case combined to explain why my friend was subsequently offered a knighthood, which he flatly refused. Except... well, read on.

+~+~+

It was perhaps fortunate that our next case together after our return from the south of England happened so quickly, for I know all too well that I am minded to dwell on things, and to over-analyse them to the point of destruction. I simply could not believe that the man that I loved more than life itself was prepared to give up his career, and retire with me to some little cottage in the middle of nowhere. It seemed all too good to be true – save that he had commissioned a local artist to draw the place, and when I walked back into our rooms on our return, the picture was hanging over the fireplace, a permanent reminder of what was to come, and one that I often looked at in those cold autumn days. And in the bottom right-hand corner, the date of our departure, two years hence and counting. I resolved to redouble my efforts to protect him from any dangers in the months that lay between us and the cottage.

In retrospect, I might have done better to focus my efforts on protecting myself.

About the only downside to our plan for a wonderful future together was that it would of necessity involve the tiresome Mr. Bacchus Holmes, whom Sherlock had grudgingly accepted back into his good graces following a fulsome (grovelling) apology shortly after the Garrideb case. My books about Sherlock were so popular now that any suggestion that we were living quietly in a country cottage anywhere in England would have had my readers (I still hated the term 'fandom' with a passion!) searching high and low for us. The lounge-lizard's offices would be needed to not only lay a false trail abroad when the time came for the move, but to also provide us with false identities for our new lives in Sussex. I suppose that I should have expected that he would have wanted something in return, and that it would lead to trouble. Yet it was a request that seemed so trivial at the time that I did not see the danger until it, quite literally, thrust itself upon me!

+~+~+

I had precious few patients by this time except for some older (and richer) ones whom I had attended whilst at the surgery, and who wished me to continue as their doctor. I felt that I owed the surgery a debt for standing by me in those early days, so as I have said before, I still undertook certain fund-raising activities, mostly attending the sort of social events that I frankly hated. Sherlock, bless him, often came with me and shared the ordeal, although he detested them as much as I did. And bearing in mind my plans to decamp to the countryside for good, I felt obliged to offer my soon to be ex-employers a little something extra before I went. So when my publishers, Brett, Burke & Hardwicke, decided to publish a special hardback edition of my twenty most popular cases (drum roll - _with revised notes!_ ), I proposed an auction of a limited number of signed copies, to raise funds for the surgery. 

I had planned to restrict these works to just twenty, offering to write a personal dedication for the lucky winners, but demand was far greater than either I or the publishers had anticipated, and in the end we settled on two hundred and twenty-three books (numbered 1-221, 221A and 221B), to be sold at auction. I reserved several copies for various friends including Miss Charlotta Bradbury - "29 for my age, and you can both keep silent if you know what is good for you!" - yet the amount raised was still staggering. Incredibly, the British Library asked to reserve number 221B, which was humbling in the extreme - and Mr. Bacchus Holmes surprised me by buying one himself. Of course it was not for him, but a present for a Mademoiselle Evadne Duguesclin, the daughter of the French ambassador to Great Britain – oh, and he also requested that I deliver it to the lady myself. 

The ambassador's daughter lived at his private residence just outside the pretty village of Woodmansterne in Surrey, so it was to that locality that I journeyed one fine Saturday morning at the start of December. I went alone; Sherlock was attending a family function of some sort, judging from the hang-dog expression on his face that morning. And that was after three cups of coffee! He had been extra demanding in bed that morning, with the result that my suburban train-ride had been more uncomfortable than usual. I once more thanked the Lord for the padded seats in first class! I had telegraphed ahead to say that I would be arriving at half-past ten in the morning, and a few minutes before the appointed time my carriage drew up outside “Croatoan”. I shook my head at the tactlessness of the French ambassador, in naming his house for the destruction of the first English settlement on mainland North America, and knocked on the door, hoping that this was not some sort of omen.

Unfortunately, it was. About five seconds later, there was the sound of a forcible expression – "hah!" - coming from behind the door. Then it was pulled violently open by a lady in her mid-twenties, prettily dressed but with a furious expression on her face. She glanced behind her, to where a young buck was holding his face as if he had just been slapped, then I saw a knowing expression in her eyes that I did not like at all.

And then she kissed me. Very, very thoroughly.

Typically, my first thought was a silent prayer of thanks that Sherlock was nowhere around to witness this. I would not call him jealous, but only because an angry Sherlock was something best witnessed from the next galaxy. My second thought was still trying to form when the lady pulled away.

“ _Mon chér_ , you are here at last!” she said, much to my surprise. “ _Allons!_ ”

She grabbed me and dragged me forcibly back to the cab, whose driver I had asked to wait just in case. The man from the house, who looked vaguely foreign and definitely annoyed, hurried to the door after her.

“Evie!” he called out. “Please!”

She ignored him, and for a small woman she was surprisingly strong. I found myself being pulled into the cab, and she called to take us into the town, leaving the young man standing there clearly at a loss. As was I. I turned and looked at her.

“You must be _le Docteur_ Watson”, she said. “I am Mademoiselle Evadne Duguesclin. I believe that you have a book for me?”

“Um, yes”, I managed incoherently. I reached into my bag and handed it to her. “I, um, did. Mr. Bacchus Holmes said that you had yet to choose an inscription?”

“Let us have _déjeuner_ ”, she said gaily “and I will be sure to think of something.”

Right. Luncheon. I could do that.

Probably.

+~+~+

“And then she drags me to this place where the prices... well, they were outrageous! Not a word of apology either, just kidnapped me then and there!”

The amount of sympathy I was receiving from across the dinner table was underwhelming. Sherlock chuckled.

“And this most forward lady did not even explain her actions?” he said at last. “Why did you not just ask her?”

I glared at him.

“Oh really?” I snipped. “Excuse me, madam, would you please provide the sugar and whilst you are at it, your reasons for a) kissing me on your doorstep, and b) kidnapping me for lunch? And I had to pay for it!”

“And a lady young enough to be your daughter”, he smiled.

“I said almost young enough”, I grumbled. “Almost! She might have been in her early thirties, for all I knew. Still, I suppose that I am still an attractive man.”

He raised an eyebrow at that.

“And you enjoyed the kiss?” he asked.

I could sense the sudden tension in the room. It was like that awful and terrifying moment for a husband when his wife suddenly turns to him and asks, 'does this make my figure look too big?'. The only possible answers are a) to pretend deafness, b) to effect a rapid change of subject, or c) to pray for a sudden apocalypse.

I, of course, chose d), to say something dumb.

“Of course”, I said. “She was quite pretty.”

He looked at me across the table, and damnation, he actually growled. I winced.

“Bedroom!” he snarled. “Now!”

Of course I was not to be pushed around in such a way. I was a manly man, not some goodwife who just laid back thought of England every time her husband felt the Urge. I had standards, for Heaven's sake!

I made it to the bedroom in less than ten seconds, and was undressed and on the bed in little more than a minute. I had assumed that he was undressing in the main room, but when he entered he was still fully clothed. And the look on his face was positively fearsome!

He quickly got out the handcuffs and leather restraints that he had got from Henriksen (that must have been an interesting conversation, I had thought at the time!), and made short work of tying my hands and feet to the four corners of the bed. I was already hard, and torn between fear at what he might be about to do to me and fear as to what he might not. He stood back and eyed his work contentedly.

“Good”, he smiled. “Now I am going out.”

“What?” I managed, aghast. Surely he would not be so cruel?

“Clearly you need a lesson as to whose mate you are, John”, he said sharply. “I am going to spend at least two hours at the gym, working up a sweat, then I am going to come home and mark you as mine.”

And he completed his work by first clipping on a cock-ring around my full erection, then rapidly working me open before inserting the vibrator in. 

“I do not think that I need to gag you as well”, he said thoughtfully. “The maids know not to come into the room whilst the door is shut. I shall see you presently. Good day, John.”

I whimpered, but he ignored me and left, shutting the door behind him. I winced as the vibrator nudged my prostate, and my cock swelled angrily at being denied release; the bastard had put the ring on its tightest setting. 

Lord, but this was so hot!

+~+~+

I must have somehow fallen asleep, because the next thing I remember was a sweaty man clambering all over me, scenting every part of me he could reach. I groaned pleasurably. 

“I hope that you have learnt your lesson”, he said sternly. “I do not share, John. Not ever.”

“I had no choice!” I said defensively. “She jumped me, not the other way round.”

“I still need to establish that you are mine”, he said firmly. He must have finished scenting me, and had got up to open our drawer full of toys. “It is time that I drove that message home.”

I perked up, hoping that meant what I thought it meant. I was surprised when I saw that he had got my harness out, and that there seemed more of it than I remembered.

“Huh?” I said incoherently.

He wrapped it around my back and tied it at the front, and I saw that there was an extra strap of leather extending down to a metal cock-ring. The bad feeling I had when I saw that was only confirmed when he clipped it open and then closed it around my cock, then removing the first ring. This new one was much looser, and I knew that a determined push would enable me to come.

“That is the idea”, he whispered in my ear. “I am going to scent you even more, John. Then we are going to put your clothes back on, and go for a walk in Regent's Park. You smelling of me, and with only that loose ring holding you back from coming. And I will be doing everything in my power to make you come!”

I whimpered in horror. That was totally.... even hotter!

+~+~+

I came twice during our hour out, to my utter mortification. Safe to say, I never let a woman (attractive or otherwise) get that close to me again. And when we returned to Baker Street, Sherlock rewarded me with one almighty blow-job, and in lieu of his apologies I accepted a long hot soak, as that had the most definite advantage of my not having to stand up at all. It was a bit mean of him to leave my walking-stick outside the bathroom door afterwards, although to be fair I needed it.

Unfortunately, my problems with Mademoiselle Evadne Duguesclin were far from over.

+~+~+

It was two days later, and the night before had been a good night. A vert good night; Sherlock had gone to town on me to make up for his behaviour the day before, and I had (eventually) forgiven him. Though I had made him work me hard for that forgiveness. So even if I could not easily sit down, I felt great that morning.

I suppose that I should have expected things to go wrong, and when Mr. Bacchus Holmes paid an unannounced call, he proved as usual to be the bearer of bad news. I thought acidly that maybe those ancient kings had had the right idea about shooting the messenger.

“Only you, doctor!” he grumbled, realizing just in time that he had inadvertently picked up Sherlock's coffee (highly inadvisable for those wishing to keep their appendages). “Now we have an international incident on our hands, just because you let yourself get kissed by the wrong girl!”

I sipped my own coffee, and wished that I had something stronger in it. 

“What are you talking about, Bacchus?” Sherlock asked. 

“Not only is the lady the French ambassador's daughter”, he snapped, “but the gentleman who was with her at the house is an attaché to the Spanish ambassador. Spain could be crucial if it enters the forthcoming war on Germany's side – and your doctor friend has just upset them!”

“I could hardly push her away”, I muttered. 

“The young man, Señor Rodriguez, thinks that she is seeing you”, Mr. Bacchus Holmes said.

“Why would he think that?” Sherlock asked calmly.

“Because that was what she told him when she got back”, his brother said. “From what I can gather, it is a lovers' tiff, but now he is sulking at the Spanish embassy and saying that it is all the doctor's fault!”

“How is it my fault?” I protested. “She kissed _me_ , remember! And it was your damn book purchase that caused all this!”

“You apparently did not try to stop her either kissing or kidnapping you”, Sherlock said dryly. “Bacchus, touch my bacon and I shall tell Mother about the three 'ladies' from Lambeth.”

Our visitor's hand froze, and he looked uncertainly at Sherlock, who narrowed his eyes at him. His brother sat back and pouted.

“Pouting does not work for John, so it certainly will not work for you”, Sherlock said smartly.”Though he has other ways of winning me over.”

His brother scowled at him, and I bit back a chuckle. Well, almost bit back. I thought about biting it back, and that counted, surely?

“I suppose that I shall have to play the knight-errant in this situation, and ride to the rescue”, Sherlock said wryly.

“Which makes the doctor here the damsel in distress!” Bacchus Holmes grinned. 

Approximately sixty seconds later he was fled from the house at top speed, Sherlock having 'obligingly' told him about a certain handmaiden costume that he had acquired from our time in Northamptonshire. Hah!

+~+~+

I was writing up some notes later that day when Sherlock came in with a telegram. He looked worried.

“What is it?” I asked.

“This is getting serious”, he said. “Señor Rodriguez has accused you of attempting to steal away his fiancée. He challenges you to a duel next Friday.”

I laughed, only to realize that he was deadly serious.

“What, pistols at dawn?” I asked, attempting to lighten the mood. 

“As the recipient of the challenge, you have the right to choose the weapons”, he said, unsmiling. “This is really serious, John. Bacchus tells me that Señor Rodriguez is well thought of at the embassy. And all this because you let that woman kiss you and take you to lunch.”

“That was not my fault”, I grumbled. “She surprised me.”

“For the whole hour of luncheon, presumably”, he said pointedly. “This needs looking into. I would suggest that you restrict yourself to the house for now, and I will see what I can do.”

“He would not actually make me fight a duel?” I asked. I knew that, in any sort of physical encounter, I would be lucky to come out second. And alive.

“I rather fear that he would”, he said grimly. “I am going out. I will see you later.”

+~+~+

“I feel like a fool!” I grumbled.

It was nine days later, and we were at some private club which Sherlock had chosen for the duel. My opponent was due in any moment. I scratched at the fake leg cast that Sir Peter Greenwood had placed on me last week – Sherlock had insisted that it had to look worn, the bastard! - and sighed. My noble friend himself was with us as a registered doctor, which Sherlock had assured me was allowed.

“They are here”, Sherlock said, looking out of the large window. “Let us do this.”

“It would be fine if I knew what we were going to do”, I grumbled. 

“If it is any consolation, you have made Bacchus' job very difficult”, he smiled. “The British government is up in arms over the case; they fear that should you win the duel, the Spanish will be offended. If you lose, the British government itself will be offended!”

“I am hardly going to win anything like this”, I said pointedly.

Our conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a group of five people. I recognized Señor Rodriguez and the harridan Mademoiselle Duguesclin, as well as (unfortunately) Mr. Bacchus Holmes. The elder of the other two I assumed from the resemblance - correctly as it turned out - to be Señor Rodriguez's father. He looked at me with lofty disapproval, and when he spoke to Sherlock, his English was flawless.

“Mr. Holmes”, he said, bowing. “Thank you for your communications. As per your entrant's choice, my son has appointed his friend Señor Felipe Vasquez as his choice, since both men must of necessity choose champions.”

I gulped. The young buck was bronzed and toned, barely half my age, and looked as he could win a fight without breaking a sweat.

“A regrettable incident”, Sherlock smiled. “Without wishing to go into details, the doctor is in a relationship with someone who did not take kindly to his kissing a lady in that manner. His partner was, ahem, somewhat violent in their reaction. Fortunately the ribs were only bruised, not broken like the leg, and I have endeavoured to prevent them from taking any action against either your son or Mademoiselle Duguesclin. This way is so much more civilized, I am sure you would agree.”

“Indeed”, the old man said. “Your letter did not place any restrictions on my son's choice, and fortunately Señor Vasquez is one of the top pugilists in our country. I hope that that is not a problem.”

Pugilists? As in boxers? My day was getting even worse!

“In these difficult circumstances, one must have rules”, Sherlock agreed. “Shall we begin?”

“I do not see the doctor's champion?” the old man said, looking around the room.

“As the doctor's colleague, I shall be representing him”, Sherlock said calmly.

Mr. Bacchus Holmes had moved surreptitiously round to stand behind where I was seated, and had it not been for his restraining hand on my shoulder, I would have yelled out an objection. Sherlock was forty-eight years old, around double the age of his opponent. I swallowed, but Bacchus applied the slightest of pressures in his grip, and I bit back my objection. At least, until Sherlock's next words.

“The terms are these”, he said, donning his own long-coat and looking at the pair of boxing-gloves like he had never seen one before. “At the first fall or knee to the ground, the bout is over. The loser must pay for a quarter-page advertisement in the “Times” newspaper, publicly apologizing to the winner. The inside front page, in tomorrow's edition.”

“That seems fair”, the old man said, clearly confident of victory. “Let us begin.”

+~+~+

I felt dazed. The bout had been going for five minutes, and I was totally mesmerized. 

At the start, Señor Vasquez had advanced confidently forwards, clearly thinking to end things as quickly as possible. Yet every time he threw a punch, Sherlock parried his blow, apparently without effort. The younger man's moves ran the gamut from confident through angry to desperate, as he wasted his energy trying to get a strike in. Sherlock looked almost bored as he conserved his own energy, his face an essay in calm disinterest. I held my breath, not daring to make a noise in case I distracted him, although he was so focussed that I doubted that he would have heard me anyway. Señor Rodriguez called encouragement to his friend during the brief pauses in the battle, but to no avail. Mademoiselle Duguesclin looked supremely bored by it all, bearing in mind the dratted woman had been the cause of this mess.

Suddenly, one particularly desperate strike caused Señor Vasquez to overbalance slightly, and totally against what had happened before, Sherlock suddenly shot forward a right hook which connected with his opponent's jaw with a sickening crunch. The man looked briefly surprised before he staggered and fell to the ground. Peter immediately rushed over to him, followed closely by his friend. 

“I yield!” Señor Vasquez gasped from the floor. Sherlock stood over him, and for a moment I thought he was going to strike the man when he was down.

“Mr. Holmes!” the older Señor Rodriguez called out. “Enough! You have the victory. We will do as you asked.”

Sherlock smiled, then slowly backed away from his opponent, before crossing to where I was sitting. He bowed to me, and I caught a half-smile creasing his mouth. I did not blush, but it was close.

“In victory, magnanimity”, he said. “If Señor Rodriguez will make a donation to the Baker Street Orphanage of the same amount that the advertisement would have cost, I am sure that Doctor Watson would be prepared to accept that.”

The two Spanish gentlemen both looked relieved when I nodded my acceptance, although I noticed that Mademoiselle Duguesclin did not. And now she was eying up the prone Señor Vasquez and his toned chest rather thoughtfully. Whilst young Señor Rodriguez helped Peter tend to his defeated friend, I was grateful that the former's father escorted the brazen hussy from the room. We were well rid of her.

+~+~+

“So”, I said once we were headed back to Baker Street. “Boxing, hmm?”

He nodded. Clearly he did not intend to make things easy.

“You never said”, I said, feeling a little annoyed at being kept in the dark. “I knew you knew some of the eastern fighting skills, but not that.”

“Father insisted that all his sons learn both pugilism and fencing”, he said. “The first to defend ourselves if needed, and the second for the discipline it requires. The only one who failed to see them both through was Ranulph, predictably enough.”

“Of course”, I said. “Poor Señor Vasquez. He must have thought someone twice his age would be a pushover.”

Sherlock looked pointedly at me.

“Probably almost as much as someone past fifty”, he quipped.

“Hey!”

+~+~+

I read the small article in disbelief, then read it again to make sure I was not dreaming. Sherlock, the bastard, had insisted that I continue to wear the cast for a few weeks 'just in case', and the damn thing itched like crazy. And it made sleeping difficult as well. Not that I had got much sleep; Sherlock had been even more possessive than usual since the case, and my body bore the marks of his constant attentions.

Proudly, I might add.

“Is something wrong?” my friend asked from where he was busy wrecking my filing system in his search for the record of some criminal or other. 

“Listen to this”, I said. “Scandal at “Croatoan”. Monsieur Louis Duguesclin, the French ambassador to Great Britain, has suffered the singular misfortune of having his only daughter, Evadne, elope, the lady having disappeared from the house last night. It is believed that she is headed back to her own country, and most probably not alone.”

“That does not surprise me”, Sherlock said. “She did both kiss and kidnap you, remember?”

I scowled at him for that.

“That is not the most surprising part”, I said. “Remember Señor Vasquez at the duel? It is he whom she has gone with, not her fiancé Señor Rodriguez.”

“Indeed”, he said, seemingly unperturbed. I looked across at him.

“This does not surprise you?” I asked.

“I am afraid that Mademoiselle Duguesclin struck me as a person who does not care how she gets what she wants out of life”, he said. “Her misuse of your untimely visit to the house demonstrated that from the start of this whole affair. I dare say that she is back in France about now. Señor Vasquez's family have a house in Soissons, so she is doubtless headed there.”

We were interrupted at that moment by Mrs. Lindberg's announcement of a visitor. It turned out to be none other than Señor Rodriguez's father, who slumped heavily into the fireside chair.

“This is a disaster”, he said gloomily. “We may end up – how do you English say it? - with a shotgun wedding. Poor Martin is broken, and keeping to his room. Mr. Holmes, I know it is probably foolish of me to expect your assistance after what has happened, but I need your help!”

Sherlock seemed to hesitate.

“I can help you a little”, he said, “mainly by telling you that all things are not what they seem.”

Our visitor looked puzzled.

“I rather admired your son's friend, Señor Vasquez”, Sherlock said, “which was why I spared him any serious injury in our little _contretemps_. He is truly a good friend to your son, and good men are hard to find in any walk of life. He understood all too well the fickle nature of Mademoiselle Duguesclin, and was prepared to put himself on the line to prove that. With your son's connivance, he wooed the lady and, with precious little effort, persuaded her to elope with him, thus proving just how faithless she really was. Although kissing middle-aged men on the doorstep and then subsequently kidnapping them for luncheon may, in all fairness, have been considered something of a clue.”

I blushed fiercely.

“I spoke with Señor Vasquez after the bout”, Sherlock said, “and he confided his fears in me. I helped him with some of the arrangements, one of which was that to avoid detection, he and the lady should cross separately to the Continent. In reality he placed her on the ferry, and is now on his way back to London where, I hope, he will still be welcome at your house.”

Our guest shook his head in bewilderment.”

“Of course he will be!” he said. “Poor Martin. Still, better that he is detached from that terrible woman before things had gone any further.”

“Indeed”, Sherlock said. “And perhaps one day, he can find someone who loves him truly, rather than a fly-by-night character such as Mademoiselle Evadne Duguesclin.”

I blinked, as a sudden memory came back to me. Oh....

+~+~+

“He told you”, I said, once our visitor was gone. “I remember now, how the boy rushed over to check that his friend was all right afterwards.”

“Hardly a boy”, Sherlock smiled. “He is twenty-six years old, and actually a year older than Señor Vasquez, or Philip as he prefers to be addressed by his friends. My opponent has known him since they were boys together, but only recently did he find that those feelings were returned. The union with Madamoiselle Duguesclin was very much a political match, and the subsequent outrage and challenge was prompted mainly by his father. No, those two may now have a chance of happiness together. We can but hope that they are allowed to take it.”

+~+~+

It was with almost predictable bad timing that, the week after this case was concluded, Mr. Bacchus Holmes told us that the government wished to honour Sherlock with a knighthood, for once again extracting the best possible outcome from a seemingly unwinnable situation. It did not surprise me that he refused, stating that he had no time for baubles, and that he wished merely to get on with his last two years of work undisturbed. And his comment about me making a good Lady were quite uncalled for! Even if I did get a new pair of silk panties out of him.

Well, they were crimson with white lace and..... stop it!

Twenty-three months to go.

+~+~+

In our next adventure, there is a potentially murderous Indian brave - from Essex!


End file.
